


The First Five Times

by caesia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4010278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caesia/pseuds/caesia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pop singer Sansa Stark has a successful international career, legions of teenage fans, and an alarming habit of sharing intimate moments with a certain curly-haired rock star.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Sansa Stark meets Jon Snow, she’s at a hotel bar.

It isn’t her usual scene- the plush red cushions, the velvet rope, the faint clicking of paparazzi lenses outside the Chateau Marmont are all missing. Instead, she perches in discomfort on a minimalist stool, hands resting weakly on the sleek bar top. She’d be able to see her reflection in the glossy finish, she thinks, if not for the puddles dripping from her hair. She blinks away the water from her vision and sniffs, glancing up to catch the eye of the bartender.

The decor isn’t the only aspect of the bar that puts her outside her comfort zone. Sansa is accustomed to mixologists who jump at the chance to impress one of the top female musicians in America with their fawning service. This man, with tattoos climbing his neck and a bored expression on his narrow face, doesn’t appear concerned in the slightest that an eight-time Grammy winner is sitting at his bar.

_Petyr wouldn’t approve._

The thought makes her blink away more blurriness. Her former manager had endless advice for preserving her image at social appearances (his term, not hers). How many friends to invite. When to arrive. When to leave. What to order- nothing that will stain her teeth, nothing with too many calories, nothing too cheap. Always get photographed entering and leaving. Never get photographed alone with a man. Never get photographed with more than _one_ man…

The ding of the elevator interrupts her recollections. A man about her age with dark curls and rounded horn-rimmed glasses strides to the bar. Ignoring the chrome stools completely, he leans forward on a toned forearm and rasps, “Four Roses on the rocks, please.”

“Sure thing, man.” The bartender immediately sets to work, his bleached topknot shining as he scoops out ice and executes a long amber pour with a flourish. 

“Thanks, mate.” Though gruff, there’s a melodic quality to the man’s voice that tickles something in her memory. Sansa looks over just as he takes his first swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing, and suddenly it clicks.

He’s Jon Snow, drummer and frontman of Nightwatch, and he’s turning to look at her with a frown.

Before she can think of what to say, the bartender finally acknowledges her existence. “Can I get you a drink?”

Petyr would not approve of any of this- not the time or day of the week, not her lack of pop singer friends, and certainly not her scruffy new companion. But he’s been her _former_ manager for three whole weeks, now. Maybe it’s time to stop thinking so much about his approval. 

“I’d like a cocktail, please. Do you have a menu I could see?” 

While the bartender shuffles around by the register, she spares a glance at Jon. His frown has softened, and it’s now directed at his glass instead of her sodden hair. Despite working in the same industry, they’ve never been introduced— they don’t share a record label or an agent or any other convenient professional connections. Their music is a study in contrasts: hers folksy pop with just enough twang to qualify for the country charts, his aggressive and electric, falling somewhere under the umbrella of alternative rock. The kind of thing her sister Arya prefers.

The menu placed in front of her features silver ink on heavy black card stock. Sansa had expected further minimalism from its contents, but she flips through three pages of drinks with violent names seemingly inspired by Tarantino films without success. Its industrial typeface does nothing to make the ingredients any more comprehensible.

The bartender crosses his arms with impatience as she returns to the first page and stares dumbly at the overwhelming options. She can feel the rocker’s eyes on her, too, and she’s about to give up and order something simple like champagne when he interrupts her thoughts. 

“What are you looking for?” Her confusion must show on her face, because he turns his body to face her and persists. “Something sweet? Fruity? Herbal? Something to drown your sorrows?”

His last question makes her bristle before she remembers what she looks like: hair mussed and blazer water-stained, alone in the bar of who-knows-what hotel. 

“Sweet,” she replies firmly. More quietly, she adds,“And strong.”

“How about a Cosmo?” the bartender offers in a dismissive tone. Jon tilts his head, still looking straight at Sansa. 

“Something more creative, I think. May I?” At her nod he steps closer, leaving his empty glass behind him on the bar. His proximity brings color back into her cheeks, his shoulder nearly touching hers as he peers at the menu. The sleeves of his button down are rolled above the elbow, so when he reaches across to turn the page she has an unobstructed view of his biceps contracting. It’s just as toned as his forearm would suggest.

Satisfied, he closes the menu but doesn’t leave her side. “Another of the same, for me. And a French gimlet for Miss Stark.”

Sansa twists as delicately as she can atop the stool. “You know who I am?”

Jon smirks, and she cringes. “You’ve put out the best selling new release for three years running. Everyone knows who you are.”

“I meant…we’ve never been introduced.”

Obediently, he offers his hand to shake. “Jon Snow. From Nightwatch”

"I know." His grip is gentle, but not at all weak. “Please, call me Sansa.”

The bartender produces their orders, looking slightly less bored. Jon raises his bourbon in her direction and nods before drinking. She brings the martini glass to her lips, careful not to spill.

“Mmmmmm.” It tastes like limes and oranges and summer flowers. “It’s heavenly!”

He ducks his head slightly at her praise, and smiles. “I’m glad.”

Sansa takes a few more enthusiastic pulls, and soon she’s nearly finished. Only the clank of Jon’s empty glass on the bar punctuates the silence between them. He motions for another.

She copies him.

“Are you staying here?”

The question startles her. “Here? No!” He reaches for his third glass just as she remembers that he arrived from the elevator. “Um, not at the moment,” she continues, trying to soften her abrupt answer.

“What brings you here, then?” He sets his drink back on the bar after a small sip this time.

“I got caught walking in the rain. Well, I was driving, but then I needed some air, so I decided to walk instead. And then it started to rain.” 

He nods, the gesture grave and full of understanding, and his handsomeness hits her just as her first drink really takes effect. Without thinking, she blurts out, “I fired my manager.”

“Good for you.”

She stares at him, wide-eyed. “You’re the first to say so.”

“Baelish is a snake,” he explains, shrugging. “If it were up to him, you’d still be performing in pigtails and princess gowns. You’re better off without all that crap.”

“I liked the princess gowns!” Sansa argues. 

“Exactly. _Liked_. When you were how old, 16?”

His dismissal put her on the defensive. “Lots of my fans are 16.”

_“_ I’m just saying, it’s okay to grow with your audience. You’re successful because you’re an authentic songwriter, not just because of the whole blue eyes, perfect hair, pop goddess…whatever.”

Evidently he feels he’s said too much- he buries his nose in his drink and gulps. Drops cling to his beard when he puts down his glass, and she’s struck by the fullness of his lips. 

Time to refocus on her drink. Appreciating the fragrance of the orange peel garnish, she takes another sip. His words spin in circles through her mind.

“How do you know so much about Petyr Baelish, anyway?” she asks finally.

“I’ve never met him or anything,” Jon concedes, wrinkling his nose, “but from what I’ve read, he seems-”

Sansa can’t help but laugh. The though of Jon Snow, brooding rock star, reading about her manager in the tabloids is too absurd. “What you’ve read in _Us Weekly?_ The _Daily Mail?_ Or do you follow Perez Hilton?”

“I—I mean…tour buses are fucking boring, okay?” he sputters, scowling, but when she giggles harder his expression softens into a sheepish grin. He runs a hand through his hair and pulls at a curl behind his ear. 

“And you believe everything you read?”

He voice turns flat. “Everyone else seems to.”

There’s some kind of scandal attached to his name, she suddenly remembers. A fire after his band’s breakthrough show at a Scottish festival. There’d been chatter online that it had something to do with the bassist of the Wildlings—a break-up, maybe, or jealousy over a record deal. 

Definitely not something Petyr would approve of. Another reason they’ve never met. 

“It was worse than that. He sold information about me. And pictures. He had all these rules about how to dress, how to behave, how to maintain my brand, and the whole time he was contracting paparazzi to get photos of me leaving the gym and climbing out of cabs, anything unflattering.”

Jon swears, his knuckles white from clenching his glass. “Shit. Shit, that’s…Sansa, you should sue him. Breach of contract, or privacy, or, I don’t know, _something_.”

Sansa shakes her head. “He won’t try anything else now that I know. He wasn’t trying to hurt me, just…profit off both ends, I guess.”

His hand twitches on his knee, as if he were about to reach out to her, but instead he pushes back his hair again. “But he did hurt you.”

The accusation makes her flinch. “He also _made_ me. Everything I am, the records, the tours, the awards-it’s all because of him. I don’t know who I am anymore.”

There’s a plaintive note to her words that wouldn’t be out of place in Jon’s music— tortured confessions are more his genre than hers. He looks her straight in the eye, close enough now that his hip brushes the edge of her stool. 

“That’s what he wants you to think. You, Sansa Stark, have an incredible talent for capturing the struggles and triumphs of teenage girls, and who your manager is doesn’t change that. Maybe this is your chance to cut some dead weight out of your life.”

_Dead weight_. That’s what Margaery used to call Joffrey when she tried to get Sansa to leave behind her self-destructive then-boyfriend. The same ex-boyfriend with whom she was even now sharing an intimate meal at Nobu according to Instagram. 

“I broke up with my boyfriend, too.”

His eyebrows shoot up. He looks impressed. It has to be the alcohol that’s making her spill all her closest-held secrets to someone she just met. The warm burn in her stomach and the warm understanding in Jon Snow’s eyes make for a potent combination. “Cheers to you. I have to ask, was it the throwing eggs at cop cars? The photographs of him getting lap dances in Ibiza? Or did you just wake up one morning and realize what a punchable smirk he has?”

His comments sting, but in a good way. It’s a strange relief not to feel obligated to come up with a plausible defense for Joffrey’s actions. “I get it. He’s a jerk. I’m stupid.”

“I didn’t say that,” Jon corrects gently. “Well, he is a jerk. No argument there. But stupid? Never. You said you broke up with him, right?” She nods. “So you made the smart move.”

He waves at the bartender to refill her drink. She waits until he’s slicing limes at the back counter, out of earshot, before tilting her head at Jon. “Do you always take it upon yourself to give relationship advice to strange girls in bars? It doesn’t exactly fit with, y’know, the image.” She makes a helpless gesture at his hair and unbuttoned shirt.

He smiles slowly, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Even rock stars can be nice, you know. Although, if I open up _Hello!_ next week and read about Jon Snow’s soft heart, I’ll know who to blame.”

The elevator dings again, and there’s a rumble of heavy boots as three men disembark. They’re the rest of the band, Sansa realizes, and the sympathetic moment she’s been sharing with Jon is lost. He raises a hand in welcome as she turns back to her drink. This one goes down even more easily than the first two, and she’s almost finished by the time the musicians have reached the bar. 

The first to approach is the shortest but also the largest. He chokes on his words for a moment before stammering, “Sansa Stark? Are you…wow!”

“Sansa, this is Sam. He plays base.” She can tell there’s a tease hidden underneath his mild tone.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says as he extends a shaky hand from the pocket of his hoodie.

She greets Grenn (guitar) and Pyp (vocals) in much the same way, all the while trying desperately to think of an explanation for her presence that doesn’t include a temporary breakdown over her manager and love life. Draining her glass, she tries to catch Jon’s eye when the bartender makes himself useful for the first time all night. 

“Would you like another?”

“No, thank you, I really must be going,” she demurs, reaching for her bag. 

Beside her, Sam drags a stool out of his way and shuffles his feet before clearing his throat. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he begins, “Could I have your autograph? Please?”

Sansa smiles, ignoring Pyp’s groans and Grenn’s sarcastic “ _No chill_.” 

“Of course.” It takes her two attempts to open the clasp on her purse to look for a pen while Sam checks his pockets wildly for a scrap of paper. Eventually, he grabs a silver bar napkin and holds it out. 

“To Sam?”

“To my girlfriend, Gilly. She’s— _we’re_ enormous fans.”

Sansa asks him about their favorite songs, jotting down a quoted lyric under the hotel name— _Castle Black_ — printed along the top of the napkin. The rest of his bandmates are chuckling by now, but Sam beams when she hands it to him, breathing his thanks. 

Mindful of the hem of her lacy dress, she presses her knees together and hops off the stool. Jon is there wrapping an arm across her back before she can take a wobbling step. 

“Let me walk you out to your car,” he murmurs. She can’t reply— she can barely manage to breathe, pressed close to his side and doubly intoxicated. He says something to the bartender and she waves weakly at his friends before he guides her through the lobby.

Outside, the sky is still heavy from the rain that has washed the night air clean. Sansa inhales, fumbling with her phone to send for a car. Jon lets his arm fall from her shoulders, but he remains at her side, staring out at the lights of the city. 

“Thank you for taking care of my drinks.” 

“Thank you for letting me buy your silence,” he jokes. “I can’t let the world know that Nightwatch listens to Sansa Stark on heavy rotation.”

A low, black car pulls up to the curb, and Jon moves to open the door for her. Then he offers her his hand. 

“Maybe there are lots of things the world doesn’t know about Nightwatch,” she chances.

The words earn her a final smile. “Maybe so.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

The second time Sansa Stark meets Jon Snow, she’s at a charity gala. 

Actually, it’s more of a party than a gala, but that’s what Margaery had called it on the invitation. It’s been sitting on her vanity for weeks now. Every time she glimpses the gold curlicues proclaiming _To Benefit our Hungry Youth_ , a knot tightens in her stomach. 

To say she’s been dreading the occasion is an understatement.

“Ouch!” Mya shrieks, pulling her wrist away from Myranda’s slap. The sight drags Sansa from her anxious thoughts. She’d invited the teenager to her suite so they could get ready together, and her long-time hair stylist is amusing herself by torturing the young singer.

“If you even _think_ about touching another pretzel while your nails are drying, I will make sure to burn you on a _particularly_ sensitive part of your scalp,” the older woman warns, deftly winding one of Mya’s dark curls around her iron. 

Sansa had trembled in silence on the stylist’s chair for months before realizing that her bark was worse than her bite. Now, she finds the woman’s threats to be a comfort. Mya looks ready to retaliate, though, so she reluctantly steps in.

“Open wide!” Sansa trills, loading a carrot stick with hummus and flying it through the air towards Mya’s lips. She rolls her eyes only to close them in satisfaction when she crunches down on her snack. 

She continues to feed crudités to the brunette while Myranda entertains them with the latest gossip on the Golden Company, the latest boy band to invade from across the pond. Her partner is one of the hottest tattoo artists in LA, and she _swears_ to have it on good authority from a friend in London that they’ve gone and got matching dragons inked on a rather _delicate_ part of their anatomy, which Myranda is happy to describe in explicit detail. 

Sansa giggles and sips San Pellegrino. It’s almost enough to make her forget about her fears. 

Then it’s time for makeup. Mya reluctantly asks Myranda for help while Sansa leans closer to the mirror, poised to add a sweeping wing to her liner.

She can’t. 

Her hand is shaking so badly that she can barely hold the liquid pen. Dropping it on the counter, she runs her palms across her silk kimono-style robe, willing herself under control. She can see Myranda frown out of the corner of her eye even as the woman expertly fills in Mya’s lips with dark plum liner. Sansa turns away from her visible concern; weakness, even in front of one of her dearest friends, is not something she needs to indulge right now. 

Just as she picks up the liner to try again, a firm knock sounds on the bathroom door. 

“Yes?”

Her new manager ducks across the threshold, and Sansa breathes a sigh of relief. There’s very little of southern California in the woman’s features— her blonde hair is too short to be fashionable, her gaze too direct, her jawline too androgynous— but the sight of Brienne makes Sansa feel safe. 

Whereas Petyr hid his controlling and scheming under the pretext of protecting her, Brienne acts in a straightforward manner.She’s understood that Sansa sees Margaery’s apparent defection to Joffrey’s camp as a personal crisis before a professional one, and dealt accordingly. When the singer had hesitantly put forth the idea of hosting Mya before the gala and arriving together, she’d agreed enthusiastically. 

Petyr would have grumbled about her sharing the spotlight.

“How are preparations going, Miss Stark?” Her formality is the only thing about her manager Sansa might change.

“Sansa was just waiting on me to do her eyeliner, right darling?” Myranda answers for her, winking. 

“Allow me.” 

Brienne doesn’t look as though she’s worn a dab of makeup in her life, but Sansa doesn’t think she’d offer if she weren’t confident in her abilities. Her hands look strange holding an eyeliner pen, yet the lines they draw across Sansa’s lashes are even and perfectly tapered. 

Before she and Mya change into their dresses, they take a picture cheek to cheek, pouting like goldfish into the camera. Sansa takes exquisite pleasure selecting a filter before she publishes the snap to her Instagram followers. Petyr frowned upon social media, saying it took away from the mystery of celebrity, but now Sansa is free to indulge her love of taking pretty pictures and sharing them with her fans.

It takes a ridiculous amount of time for them to make their way downstairs, enter the limo, and drive down the block to the hotel where the hostess awaits their arrival. Sansa is accustomed to such delays— she’d grown up with a famous mother, after all, so she’d long ago learned the appropriate occasions for slipping out the back drive of a hotel instead of dodging cameras in front— but Mya fidgets in her seat and fiddles with the pleats on her dark navy gown.

Outside the lobby of the Ritz, the paparazzi have already gathered en masse, a sea of middle aged men in v-neck tshirts and cargo shorts eager for a glimpse of couture fashion. 

Sansa braces herself, and then addresses Mya. “Okay. Remember to keep your knees together when you get out of the car. We’ll exit on the street side, straighten our dresses, and walk in together. No posing, just smile as we walk past.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Mya salutes and grins. Theirs is a strange friendship— Sansa never thought that guest mentoring on a reality singing competition would earn her a lasting relationship with her protégé. Mya is as naive to the world of pop celebrity as Sansa is jaded by it. Together, they’re a good match. 

They glide past the photographers and into the hotel as planned, smiles fixed firmly in place. Once inside, Sansa veers left to pluck a flute of champagne from the tray of a nearby waiter. Mya’s grin turns mischievous, but at a sharp look from Sansa she rolls her eyes and accepts a lemonade instead. 

 _Into the breach_ , Sansa thinks, leading the way towards the first group of acquaintances she sees. Then it’s air kisses and exclamations, praising dresses and promising lunches, over and over and over as they move through the room. Some stars want selfies, some want to know the exact shade of her lipstick, and nearly everyone wants to let her know how sorry they are about the breakup. 

Sansa keeps her replies light— some things just aren’t meant to be!— but inside she’s steaming. She feels more and more like a cornered animal, and every barbed question a stick jabbing her to see if she’ll snap. As soon as they reach a break in the crowd, Sansa pulls Mya behind a bouquet of roses sculpted from ice and drags her to the ladies’ room, muttering. 

“If one more person asks me about Joffrey, I’ll…I don’t even know!” she finishes lamely, reluctant to actually make a scene. 

“Give me a signal and I’ll step on their toes.” Mya replies, considering her Louboutins with interest. “I could do some serious damage with these babies.”

Sansa tries to laugh, but it comes out more like a sob. Biting the inside of her cheek, she focuses on smoothing out a copper curl so that she doesn’t have to see the sympathetic expression on Mya’s face.

Unfortunately, the night isn’t over yet, and they haven’t even faced the hostess of the evening. Sansa reenters the ballroom determined to find Margaery and get the necessary pleasantries over with. With a warning to Mya about saying “no” to alcohol, she shoos her friend toward the nearest hors d’oeuvres station and straightens her shoulders. 

So intent is she on scanning the crowd that she doesn’t notice the man who appears at her shoulder until he clears his throat and speaks in her ear. 

“Can I offer you a drink?”

It takes her a moment to recognize him, but when she does, she bursts out laughing. 

It’s Jon Snow.

Wearing a tuxedo. 

Sansa covers her mouth, belatedly trying to hide her mirth when he frowns. “Jon! I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I’m performing. Hence, the monkey suit,” he explains.

She looks over his outfit again. The shoulders are sharply cut, the trousers well-tailored. He’s slicked his long hair back into a bun. 

“Do you approve?” 

Sansa breaks off her examination of the elegant lines of his lapels to blush. “I do. Except…” she frowns, “your bow tie is crooked.”

He shrugs. “It lends a rebellious touch, don’t you think?”

“No.” Her reply is firm. “It looks more like you tried to get away with tying it nice and loose, and now it’s drooping.”

His sheepish expression tells her she’s right on the money. It’s only then she remembers his first question and notices the glassware in each of his hands. 

“What did you have the bartender mix up for me this time?”

He holds up a shallow goblet filled with pale gold. “Champagne cocktail. Nothing too fancy.”

She accepts the drink and takes a sip. It’s slightly fizzy, and the sweet aftertaste leaves a sparkling glow on the back of her throat. “Once again, you have an excellent read on my taste.”

He nods in recognition of the compliment, and takes a sip of his own. He seems content to share the moment in silence. After all the superficial chatter she’d endured upon arriving, it’s a welcome change.

Soon, though, the flutters in her stomach get the best of her. “When do you go onstage?”

“After Margaery makes her opening remarks. We’re to get the dancing started, I believe.” He makes a face. 

Nightwatch is more likely to get a mosh pit started, Sansa thinks, but she keeps her doubts to herself. Jon looks uncomfortable enough in his suit, even though it’s a good look. Too good, really. She maintains her side of the conversation before she becomes any further distracted. “Where did you and Margaery meet?”

“We haven’t,” he admits, lifting a hand to smooth a nonexistent curl behind his ear. “Her brother’s personal assistant knows our manager’s wife, or something like that.”

Working every connection, no matter how tenuous— that sounds like exactly like Margaery. Not for the first time, Sansa wonders if their friendship was ever real, or just a convenient thread in her networking web. 

It doesn’t do to dwell on the past, though. Better to focus on what’s right in front of her. She steps forward, tilting her head to let her hair fall over one shoulder. Jon’s eyes skip down her silver gown in appreciation. 

“After all you’ve done for me,” she begins, gesturing at the drink in her hand but alluding to their night at the bar, “I’m afraid I cannot allow you to perform looking like you tied your tie with your eyes closed. Follow me.”

She leads him along a row of candlelit booths, letting her hips sway with each step. Something about Jon’s attention makes her feel powerful. It must come across in the way she walks, because partygoers step aside to make room for them as she winds her way toward an alcove beneath the grand staircase of the hotel. 

Jon snorts at the imitation candle flickering from an ornate brass sconce. “Seriously? You’d think we were in a palace the way this place is decorated.”

“A second-rate palace,” Sansa muses, setting her drink on a faux-marble plinth. At his raised brow, she clarifies, “The Four Seasons is bigger.”

“Right. Margaery should mention that in her speech. ‘Please enjoy your evening in the _second_ -largest palace in the city, chosen in order to reduce costs and maximize our charitable donation to Hungry Youth. Enjoy your liver paté!’”

Sansa can’t help but laugh at his attempted American accent and the absurdity of it all. The movement sets her teetering on her heels. In an instant, Jon catches her, his left hand pressed to the sliver of exposed skin above the low back of her dress.

They freeze. Once she finds her balance, he retracts his hand, closing it into a fist at his side, but the warmth of his palm lingers on her skin.

“Hold this,” she murmurs, her voice husky. He cradles her pale blue clutch with care. Slowly, Sansa closes the narrow gap between them and pulls at his bow tie. As expected, the loose knot collapses at her touch. 

“Now hold very still,” she breathes, and his throat bobs above her fingers as he swallows, and _this_ , this is what she’s been missing. 

With Joffrey, she spent every moment in terror that he would leave, that he would snap or embarrass her and their perfect fairytale courtship would shatter. Now that it has, she’s beginning to realize there are other ways to feel around handsome men.

Like the thrill that travels down her spine at the breadth of Jon’s chest. He’s a compact man, no taller than her in heels, but there’s a steady solidness beneath her fingers as she smoothes his white dress shirt. She straightens his collar next, enjoying the prickle of his beard against her knuckles, and then adjusts the strip of black satin to lie flat against his neck. 

Bracing her wrists atop his collarbones, she can feel the thrum of his heartbeat despite the layers of designer fabrics covering his skin. Her movements are careful, folding and tucking and tugging to get the edges lined up just right…

She’s leaning so close that their breaths mingle. His smells faintly of whiskey and leather and pepper, or maybe that’s his cologne she detects. Caught up in cataloguing the scent, she misses the bright cadence of Margaery’s magnified voice until Jon clears his throat.

“That’s my cue.”

His voice has been reduced to a croak, his pupils blown wide and dark in the flickering light of the alcove. 

“Good luck.”

With a jerk of his head, he stumbles away, stopping short to turn and thrust her clutch back into her arms. 

Sansa returns to the crowd. Glancing at the booths, she locates Mya and makes her way over to her friend.

“YOU!” she shrieks. Sansa winces. Clearly someone’s been at the champagne after all. “You’ve been holding out on me!! All this time, we thought you were moping over Joffrey when really you’ve been _mooning over Jon Snow!_ ” 

Sansa can’t keep from smiling, even as she denies it. “We’ve met once, Mya. There’s nothing to tell.”

The teenager manages to look serious for a moment before breaking into a gleeful grin. “Bullshit. Don’t worry— I already texted Myranda!”

“Why did I ever introduce you two?” Sansa complains, but her heart isn’t in it. Her full attention is focused on the stage, where the other members of Nightwatch stand tuning their instruments. Just as Margaery finishes her speech and the audience bursts into applause, Jon leaps onstage and settles behind the drums.

Suddenly, a spotlight appears. It darts between the guests, illuminating snatches of glittering finery before settling on a white baby grand that’s emerged without notice. The pianist begins a jazzy scale in the lowest register of the keyboard, warming up his fingers and the crowd. Black ringlets gleam under the bright beam, and by the time he’s reached middle C, Sansa recognizes him— he’s a French prodigy, fond of velvet tails and patent leather shoes, who goes by a single name: Satin _._

He plays with his audience for a few more bars, layering devastating trills and arpeggios in syncopated combinations before landing on an unresolved chord and placing his hands in his lap. 

From the back of the stage, Jon pounds out a beat.

Then the band is grooving, accompanying Satin’s playing and shouting their way through the familiar chorus in unison. It’s not a Nightwatch song—unsurprising, considering their genre— but at least the Clash were a punk band. Sansa watches from her seat as couples hit the floor, content to cheer from her seat when Jon and Satin trade off blistering solos. She’s still smiling when they stand to accept the audience’s applause, until a confection in gold satin emerges from the crowd.

“Sansa, you made it!” Margaery crows, kissing her twice on each cheek. “And you brought a friend! I’m Margaery Tyrell, it’s such a delight to meet you.”

Mya chokes out her name between more exaggerated kisses. 

“You are so brave,” she continues. “It’s hard enough to go through a breakup without all the press talking and speculating. And I had to invite Joffrey, of course, for appearance’s sake. But he’s _conveniently_ performing in Toronto tonight, so I promise he won’t be here!”

Sansa knows. She ‘d checked his tour schedule twice, just to be sure. 

It’s reassuring that her friend took the time to do so, though. In the face of Margaery’s outpouring of goodwill, it’s the wrong time to voice her uncertainties. Questions about intimate dinners and Twitter flirting will have to wait. 

“Of course I came. I know how much tonight means to you,”she says instead. “Everything looks stunning, Marg.”

She beams. “Thank you. Let’s take a picture! Mya, you too!” She motions to the event photographer lurking on the edge of the dance floor. Unable to decline, Sansa scoots to make room. 

As the camera flashes, she wonders what the tabloids will say about their contrasting metallics. Gold and silver. First and second place. They’ve weathered attempts by the press to turn their friendship into a rivalry before, but never over a boy. 

“I have to mingle—so many donors to schmooze, you know—be sure to leave a check on the way out, dears!”

With a wave, Margaery disappears. Sansa’s doubts remain.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kind words and kudos on the first chapter! All the feedback made me feel so appreciated and excited to get back to writing more frequently. I hope you enjoy Nightwatch featuring Satin's rendition of "Rock the Casbah" as much as I did :)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired in equal parts by the song "The First Five Times" by Stars and by Kit Harington's recent role in the Game of Thrones skit for Red Nose Day. I have been THE WORST at keeping my fics updated this year, but I'm about to go on summer break and I'm raring to write. Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated! If you're so inclined, you can find me on tumblr where I'm caesiamusa.


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